


Riptide

by orphan_account



Category: Untraceable (2008)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 21:29:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Griffin and Agent Marsh were the FBI's very own Sapphire and Steel, they had built the cybercrime unit from scratch and hunted bad guys. Tim is content to watch from the sidelines and occasionally help to pull the winning punch. The rest of the time, he tries to have their backs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Riptide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chelsea Frew (chelseafrew)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chelseafrew/gifts).



> A/N: The source material features rather graphic scenes of violence and this story mentions them (not explicitly, but they're there). YMMV, etc. Also, dear recipient, consider this the preview of your actual story, which is long and plotty and got away from me. Unfortunately, life happened. Merry yuletide and enjoy!

 

**Riptide**

 

riptide [ˈrɪpˌtaɪd]

_n_

**1.** (Earth Sciences / Physical Geography) Also called **rip** **tide-rip** a stretch of turbulent water in the sea, caused by the meeting of currents or abrupt changes in depth

**2.** (Earth Sciences / Physical Geography) Also called **rip current** a strong current, esp one flowing outwards from the shore, causing disturbance on the surface

 

(From Collins English Dictionary)

 

  
*

 

 

When Tim comes home that day, when it is all over – the questions, the OPR's three ring circus everybody could have done without, when Griffin's desk is cleaned out and Reilly's hard disc is bagged for evidence and on its way to the secondary analysis team – the first thing he does is lock his door. And unlock it again – what if he gets kidnapped and the FBI thinks he never got home? And lock it again – the field office knows that he went home, he left a note on his desk. Plus, his mobile has GPS. He checks the pockets of his trousers for it.

 

He disconnects his modem, puts his laptop under the couch. Reconnects it again and checks all the snuff-, torture and gossip sites he keeps tabs on for new and sick posters, knowing full well that it's occupational therapy (side effect: flashbacks and nausea) since Rilley never posted on forums. Just popped up, killed a cat and started slaughtering people as if it was the natural progression of things.

 

He makes himself a cup of coffee, pours it down the sink, goes to bed. Gets up again, calls his parents to tell them that he's fine, doing well, eating well, doesn't have any money problems, everything is really fine, just checking in, bye mom, love you, too. Calls again to tell her that if she doesn't hear from him in five hours she should call the office. Goes to bed.

 

And gets up again, checks the sicko-sites again. Shuts his laptop down, puts it under the couch. Puts the FBI's emergency contact number for agents on speed dial and memorises it. He knows that it's extremely unlikely that he'll be targeted, (a) statistics are on his side, (b) they know for a fact that Rilley didn't have a partner and (c) most of the vast sea of deviant behaviour he encounters on the internet is just that – deviant behaviour _on the internet_. 

 

Then again, nobody had thought that an agent of the cybercrimes unit would be killed for the pleasure of a voyeuristic, sensationalist audience. Tim doesn't doubt for a second that nobody got Reilly's version of  _ Schadenfreude 101  _ and all that's going to be left of this case is an FBI file, an entry on the encyclopedia dramatica, Griffin's grave, his own version of PTSD and a bunch of fan sites for killwithme.com.

 

He gets up, sends a text to Matt and receives an impromptu answer: “I love you, too, even if you write in tongues. It's 4 a.m. here and I'm tired. Bad day at work?” Tim smiles, because only Matt writes text messages in full sentences these days, and only Matt would answer “ilu &amp; miss u” with that much thought, Tim's sure of that. 

 

_ Matt in a container of battery acid. _

 

It's a thought, pre-visual and pre-verbal and for a split-second Tim is thankful for that. The thought, in its abstract form is bad enough:  _ Matt in a container of battery acid. Agent Marsh evading a rotary tiller. Griffin is dead.  _ Tim puts his mobile next to him, his fingers are cold and don't feel connected to his shaking hand. He knows, technically and statistically that there are only options (a) and (b), (a) being that yes, he's currently being stalked by a psychopath, in which case corollary (ai) applies: They already know about Matt. Or, option (b) He's not being stalked. In any case, it doesn't make any difference whether he just texted Matt or not. 

 

Still, the thought that there is somebody out there, somebody new, who was just tunnelling his way into his mobile via iSynch and now knows about Matt, stays with him.

 

Tim curls up on the couch, knees tucked against his stomach, and pulls the comforter over his head. 

 

Then he waits, for something, anything to happen. 

 

*

 

He wakes up when somebody taps him in the shoulder. Looks up and sees Agent Marsh standing in front of him. Her shoulders are set in a straight line, as if the slightest curb in her body would make her crumble. Her eyes are set into dark circles and strained skin. A lot of people aren't sleeping, these days.

 

“Your mother called the field office,” Agent Marsh says.

 

Tim looks at her. “Griffin's dead,” he says.  _ Griffin's dead and it's our fault.  _

 

Agent Marsh looks at him, pulls herself up a little taller, her body an invisible barrier between Tim and the fear that fills the room. Says nothing except for: “D'you have a coffee maker?”

 

Tim nods and realises that even though they've worked together for five years, Agent Marsh hasn't been to his flat until now. He'd always been the backbone of the office, the nerd guy who knows all the communities, ranging from the harmlessly odd to the disturbingly weird ones, the one guy who can go native like nobody else, who keeps the FBI informed on all the gossip on the internet. He's no Griffin by any means and he knows that.

 

Griffin doesn't –  _ didn't – _ love the internet like he did. Tim feels like he owes a lot to the internet; his boyfriend, more than a few sleepless nights, his decision to study at the MIT. He had joined the FBI to make it a safer place. (As opposed to programming nifty open source applications and make it a  _ better  _ place) Griffin and Agent Marsh on the other hand were the FBI's very own Sapphire and Steel, they had built the cybercrime unit from scratch and hunted bad guys. Tim is content to watch from the sidelines and occasionally help to pull the winning punch. The rest of the time, he tries to have their backs.

 

That hadn't worked out so well.

 

He hears his coffee machine kicking into gear, a low, comforting rumble that signifies late nights and early mornings. He's just about to call, “One sugar, no milk for me,” into the kitchen when Agent Marsh returns with his coffee, one sugar, no milk. Tim hadn't thought that she knew how he liked his coffee. 

 

They stare into their cups in silence until Agent Marsh says, “It's not your fault, you know that, right?” 

 

Of course he knows, deep down, but it's so tempting to press his self-loathing into a familiar formula. “I should have---,” he hears himself say, “I watch the weirdos,” he tries again, “I don't do anything else.”

 

Agent Marsh is all business and steel and she doesn't have time for bullshit. Her face shows exactly that when she says, “False. Reilly showed up, bought a kitten, watched his father die and escalated. He wasn't active before, you know that.”

 

Tim nods and reaches for his mobile, mainly not to look Agent Marsh in the eye. He has a new message, a photo of Matt's hand curved into gesture for “I love you” in sign language. He needs to make the internet a safer place. Just needs to.

 

He owes the internet, he owes Griffin. “What do we do now?” He asks and looks at Agent Marsh who sinks back into the couch. She touches his knee briefly, a smile ghosting over her lips. “Now we breathe.” She sighs, looks at him like she sees him for the first time. “Griffin's dead,” she says. “Griffin's dead. 

 

Tim squeezes her hand, his throat dry. He closes his laptop. 

 

“Griffin's dead,” he repeats. It passes his lips a little easier this time.

 

They watch the tweets for #killwithme run down Tim's screen. It's not until he feels the weight Agent Marsh's and hears her deep, regular breaths that he realises that she's asleep. 

 

“Griffin's dead,” he repeats to himself and his silent living room and the sound of Agent Marsh's breaths. 

 

He's going to have her back. It's the least he can do. 


End file.
